


Abrade

by Squash (JeSuisGourde)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Rape Aftermath, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 22:08:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17272028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeSuisGourde/pseuds/Squash
Summary: The aftermath of 3x06. Mickey can't stop thinking about it.





	Abrade

**Author's Note:**

> Oops I was planning on writing a nice happy fluffy story for my next fic but this just kind of fell out of my fingers tonight.  
> Major TW for rape-related trauma. The narrative style is kind of meant to be really fast-paced and panicky and upset and I know that can be a lot as well.

As soon as you've sprung desperate into action on the couch, flipping the whore over and fucking her into the cushions with your teeth gritted because it's prove yourself or fucking else, you are gone. It's a haze and it's laser-focused. You are right there, her face in your face her breath in your nose her skin slapping against yours, and you are somewhere else, above yourself beside yourself looking in on this event like a fucking sports spectator. You are in it, inside of it, and you are everywhere fucking else.

And at some point, it's over, and you're so outside of yourself and so far in yourself that you barely noticed whenever it was that you came and pulled out but the whore is pulling her dress back on and taking her money and leaving and Ian is sitting there in his boxers until your dad shoves the gun in his face and he's pulling on his jeans and his shoes and there is fear in his eyes and he keeps shooting you these looks like he doesn't know what to do or say. It doesn't matter, there's nothing he could do or say. Nothing. So he leaves with his shirt in his hand like a fucking one night stand only Terry's gun is wedged against his back until he's on the porch and then there's a clatter of footsteps down the stairs and then nothing.

Your ears are ringing. It kind of feels like nothing around you is real, only then your father's gun hits the back of the couch beside your head and his breath clouds your face like her breath clouded your face and it ruffles the hair on the side of your neck and you can't look, you can't look so you stare blankly at the curtains in front of you.

“Get some fucking clothes on,” he hisses in your face. Smells like rancid liquor and sweat and stink. “Clean this shit up.”

Then the face and the gun are gone and his back is in the corner of your vision the door opening the bright sun shining in the door slamming rattling on its hinges but everything feels very very far away. He's gone and you don't know where he's going and you think maybe you should care, maybe you should be worried but you're not.

There is silence, and then suddenly everything zooms in so fast, too fast, and you are there on the couch and your skin feels like too much and your head hurts so fucking bad you want to cry but you can't and your legs stand up before you figure out why you're standing, and then your stomach comes into focus and you stumble over to the kitchen sink and vomit and then you stand there clutching the crumbling edge of the counter and you retch and retch but nothing else comes out.

Everything is too much and too bright and too loud and you're standing there trying to breathe trying to think trying to think trying to think remembering _Clean this shit up_ and it was a _command_ and at least it's something to focus on so you turn on the sink to wash away your vomit. You put on the clothes sitting on your floor where you took them off this morning. You pull all the blankets and sheets off the couch and ball them up and bring them out to the basement and toss them in the washing machine dump half the fucking box of detergent in turn it on go back up to the living room and stand there staring at the bare couch. Your nose won't stop running but you don't want to touch it. Find a paper towel in all the mess in the kitchen and clean up the gob of bloody spit and the cum on the floor from after the whore got off you. You shoulder hurts you don't remember why you don't think about why. Pick up the ben-wa beads like they're a snake and bury them in the back of your dresser and hope you never, ever look at them again. Your skin feels tight. Ian didn't bleed all over the sheet on the recliner but you ball it up anyway and throw it in the laundry hamper that's leaning half-crushed against the wall.

You are still so far away and too, too close. You can still smell her on you. You can still feel her skin on your thighs. You can still feel her shoulders under your hands. You turn the shower on as hot as it can go and try to scrub yourself until you're bright red but the water keeps switching from boiling hot to so cold it feels like you're burning and you scrub at your face to get the dried blood off and just end up opening all the cuts. You can feel your eye swelling shut already. You haven't looked in the mirror and you don't know if you can but you can feel how your lip is split and your eyebrow is split and you're surprised your nose isn't fucking broken but it seems to be the only thing that survived this fucking day. You scrub your body until you're bright red and then you scrub with your nails and there are streaks of red and white across you. And then it's too much and you have to turn the water off and you can barely stand the feeling of the towel on you and you put on clean clothes but you can barely stand the touch of clothes but you can't be naked, you just can't, so you grit your teeth and you put on jeans and a shirt and a jacket and socks and shoes and you shove your wallet in your pocket and your keys and phone and a knife in your boot and you get your gun from your dresser and you're about to leave the house just leave go somewhere anywhere but you take a step and then another towards your bedroom door and then you're on the bed, on top of the sheets, curled up with your knees pressed so hard against your chest you can't breathe.

You want to cry but you can't. You want to scream but you can't. You don't know if you want to find Ian or never, ever see him again but you feel sick in the pit of your stomach in the pit of your being when you think about him so you can't think about that not right now. You want to get up and go but you can't. You want to hit something, hurt something, but you can't even imagine seeing another human being right now. You'd probably haul off and shoot someone. Add murder to juvie and whatever the fuck just happened and nope not going there not thinking about it not thinking about her hands on you her face in your face her breath her skin her cunt around you the disgust that's in your fucking skin it's in your _veins_ and you want to tear it out.

There is nothing in this world except your bed and your legs against your chest and the back of your bedroom door and the crawling in your skin. Distantly you hear the washing machine buzz downstairs and _clean this shit up_ so you are back in the basement moving the sheets to the dryer and they feel greasy with too much detergent but you don't fucking care. You are upstairs again standing there staring at the bare couch and then your feet are moving toward the door and out the door and you're slamming the door and out the gate and slamming the gate and down the street and down another street and another and another and you're not thinking just walking just running from the too much too close the skin you want to pull off the thoughts you want to shut off her skin on you her dead eyes Ian's hurt eyes Ian's blood Ian's fear your fear your blood your skin too tight your head pounding your eyes stinging your nose stinging as you vomit again in an alley somewhere and barely wipe your mouth and spit just keep walking just keep going keep moving.

You walk until it gets dark, until it's been dark for a while. You don't know where you are. So you rob some fucker walking down the street and you don't stab him even though you really really want to. You walk until you find an L station and use some of the stupid fuck's money to buy yourself a ticket and you ride back towards home with your head down no eye contact with any of the other people in the car not that you would normally but even three seats over that old lady is too close too close too close.

There are lights on in your house and you don't know if dad is home or what's going to happen when you step inside or who knows what happened but fuck it because you're already half-dead right you always knew this was going to happen right you probably fucking deserved it right you're a fucking Milkovich fucking a dude in your own goddamn house what the fuck else did you expect to happen certainly not a fucking celebration certainly not a fucking hug certainly not a surprise party Terry already got his surprise goddamn party. The door is unlocked and you step in and Iggy grunts from the couch and Mandy is nowhere to be seen and your father is sitting at the kitchen table cleaning his fucking gun but he doesn't look at you he doesn't look up at all. So you grunt back like nothing's ever happened like the couch isn't bare like there isn't remnants of vomit in the sink that you didn't really clean like your eye isn't swollen half-shut like there aren't purple bruises on your neck and blood crusted in your nose like there isn't still a ringing in your ears and you go to your room but you don't slam the door you just can't.

You lay in bed and you try to sleep and it's dark and you lay in bed and you try to sleep and it's still dark and you lay in bed and you try to sleep and you can see it's getting light out and you lay in bed and your skin is crawling and your eye is swollen shut and throbbing and your throat feels tight with disgust every time you breathe. You stay in bed and nobody knocks on the door. They all assume you've gone out. You stay in bed and you don't go to work and you don't move and you don't think about Ian and you don't think about your dad or the whore or your skin or the way Ian looked like he was about to cry or the way you can't cry you just fucking can't.

And you are in and out for a couple of days. In your room but out, so distant you have no idea what time it is where the hours go what have you been doing maybe just sitting on your bed staring at nothing staring at your hands staring at the door trying not to think and when you're in you're too in, you're so in you can feel every single hair on your body you are crawling you are stinging you are sore and your eye is still swollen and it feels like your head is three thousand tons like it's lighter than a balloon and flying away like everything is right there in front of you and every single detail of every single object everywhere is so sharp too sharp it hurts. In and out and then you can't stand it anymore the noise of your family outside your room the feeling of your bed the feeling of your skin you need to get out.

Ian hasn't even texted you not even an ' _are you alright_ ' and you don't know what to think you don't want to see him hear him think about him because if you think about him you think about her you think about how weak you are just a pussy boy a little fucking faggot your dad could kill you if he wanted to he almost killed you then but instead he did that he did that to you and maybe that's worse than death maybe you actually would have rather died maybe it would have hurt less maybe you wouldn't be in and out maybe you wouldn't be vomiting every time you eat something maybe your skin wouldn't be crawling like you want to pull it off like your veins are so full of disgust there's no blood left in your face maybe your hands wouldn't be shaking maybe you wouldn't want to tear yourself apart. The air is brisk in the abandoned building but you don't bring a jacket and your arms are cold but who fucking cares. Who _fucking_ cares. Nobody, that's who. No one. Do you care? No, you don't you can't you just can't care you have to push it all so far away so you don't think about it so you don't feel it so you can breathe so you can keep down your lunch so you can maybe sleep for just half an hour.

The gun is loud in your ears and you wince every time you fire but your hands are the steadiest they've been since it happened when there's a fucking Ruger in your grip and you're firing bullets into stolen stuffed animals duct taped together on a pile of cinder blocks and it's useless and stupid and your head still fucking hurts but at least your hands are steady. You're not thinking, no you're not thinking about how you're fucking angry and terrified and how your skin is still crawling and you want to hurt something just to hurt something just to get this crawling out just to get the feeling of her out you're not thinking about that not thinking about anything at all except how steady your hands are with a gun in them.

And then Ian is behind you and he's talking and you can hear him but he's so far away and so close too close and you don't know what to do. You don't want to hear him or see him or smell him or talk to him or think about him but he's here and you shift your weight and look away because you do you want to look at him you want to ask him how can you think about it how because you can't stop thinking about it either you can't can you but you want to and you want to think you can. Your skin is seething and the cold isn't helping and everything hurts and why the fuck would you be fucking _okay_ but you say nothing and you shoot again. And he's yelling he wants you to look at him but if you look you'll just see him bloody on that chair and you'll just think about his face when it happened and you'll just think about how he put his clothes back on so slowly and he couldn't look at you until he was walking out the door and then he didn't know how to look at you and now _he's_ fucking angry that you won't look at him now _he's_ mad that he can't get it out of his head. You raise the gun and fire. Steady. He leaves. He doesn't look at you. Your hands shake. You empty the clip.

 

 


End file.
